I stand washing the dishes in the cold kitchen and look at
the window facing me. It’s black against the deep darkness, and smeared with a
sopping veil of unwanted condensation which hides the view to the embankment
and its host of white snowdrops. Flecks of rain run mindlessly down the
outside, driven there by a cold wind from the east. It deflates my mood to a
degree I find surprising.
And then I think of the birds and animals trying to rest out there with no protection from unfriendly elements. I hurry to lower the blind to remove the view from reluctant perception. This is the curse of the HSP.
(The blind is white, by the way, chosen to reflect more of the artificial light back into the room. Small mercies are welcome.)
